m 


/   i 


MY      A.   E.   F. 


MY   A.  E.  F. 


A    HAIL   AND    FAREWELL 


BY 

FRANCES  NEWBOLD  NOYES 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


ait- 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
Feedebick  a.  Stokes  Company 


copyright,  1919,  by 
McClure's  magazine  (inc.) 


MY      A.   E.   F. 


MY  A.  E.  R 

Because  you  are  the  best  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  me  in  my  life,  I  want  to  tell  you 
so,  my  A.  E.  F.  You  were  the  most  won- 
derful playmate — the  truest  comrade — that 
a  lucky  girl  ever  had,  and  I  can't  let  you  go 
without  talking  to  you  just  once  more.  I 
can't  realize  that  I  have  lost  you — that  all 
the  world  has  lost  you — that  in  such  a  little 
while  you  will  have  passed  like  a  dream  in  the 
night ;  you,  so  vivid  that  you  seemed  eternal, 
so  alive  that  it  seemed  that  you  could  never 
die,  swinging  along  with  that  incredible 
blending  of  dignity  and  impudence,  a  flash 
of  white  teeth  and  shining  eyes  lighting  up 
your  lean  young  face,  singing  and  swearing 
in  the  same  breath ;  never  too  weary  to  swag- 
ger a  little — and  God  knows  that  sometimes 
you  were  mortally  weary ;  never  too  bitter  to 

[1] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


find  a  jest — and  sometimes,  my  A.  E.  F., 
you  were  passing  bitter;  never  too  rough  to 
fail  in  gentleness — and  there  were  times 
when  no  Sunday  school  in  the  universe  or  its 
senses  would  have  awarded  you  a  diploma. 
But  no  more  gallant  figure  ever  swung 
through  the  ages  than  you  in  your  bright 
youth  and  your  drab  khaki;  you,  with  yoiur 
curly  head  high  and  your  shoulders  back 
under  the  weight  of  the  world  and  an 
eighty-pound  pack ;  you,  with  the  dreams  of 
an  old  world  and  the  vision  of  a  new  behind 
those  shining  eyes  of  yours — eyes  that  could 
be  as  level  as  Justice,  and  as  dancing  as 
Folly,  and  as  tender  as  Pity.  How  can 
you  be  just  a  memory,  you  who  were  more 
alive  than  Life  itself?  You  were  more 
friend  to  me  than  any  friend  that  I  have 
ever  had,  dearer  than  any  love,  the  comrade 
that  we  go  seeking  all  our  lives.  When  you 
saw  me  standing  there  by  the  road  down 
which  you  were  striding,  your  hand  came 

[2] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


out  to  me  quicker  than  thought  and  you 
swung  me  along  with  you,  small  and  breath- 
less, and  a  little  frightened,  because  you 
were  so  big  that  I  was  wondering  whether 
I  could  keep  up  with  you,  or  whether  I 
mightn't  be  only  a  bother,  after  all.  But 
you  swore  that  it  was  easier  to  walk  with 
my  hand  in  yours ;  you  never  laughed  when 
I  took  three  steps  to  your  one;  you  never 
let  me  go.  You  made  me  feel  that  I  was 
your  pal,  and  your  slave,  and  your  god- 
dess— and  it's  a  lucky  girl  who  has  even 
one  man  to  make  her  feel  that.  I  had  a 
thousand ! 

There  were  very  few  things  that  we  didn't 
try  together.  I've  served  you  everything 
from  soup  to  doughnuts;  sold  you  every- 
thing from  Fatimas  to  postage  stamps. 
I've  given  you  everything  from  Camels 
and  ice-cream  to  good  advice — and  my 
heart;  I've  hiked  hundreds  of  miles  with 
you,  and  danced,  I  verily  believe,  thousands; 

[3] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


I've  sung  every  song  that  you  ever  sang, 
from  the  days  when  we  passionately  de- 
manded, "Where  do  we  go  from  here, 
boys?"  to  the  days  when  we  even  more  pas- 
sionately queried,  "How  you  gomia  keep 
'em  down  on  the  fai^m?" ;  and  when  we  sang 
"Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here!"  I  didn't 
substitute  "deuce,"  either.  I've  ridden  with 
you  in  side-cars  and  trucks,  freight-cars  and 
river-boats,  busses  and  aeroplanes;  I've 
played  auction  and  pinochle,  pitch,  and 
poker  with  you,  and  I've  even  (oh,  tell 
it  not  in  Gath)  I've  even  shot  craps. 
I've  ruined  innumerable  perfectly  good 
games,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  am 
able  to  reason  fluently  with  that  ada- 
mant young  creature,  Phoebe  Five,  and 
fully  understand  that  four  aces  beat  two 
pair;  but  if  a  fellow  has  to  cut  out  any  lan- 
guage more  fervent  than  "Gee"  and  can't 
play  for  even  a  quarter  of  a  centime  it  takes 
away  some  of  the  first  fine  careless  rapture 


MY     A.     E.     F. 

of  the  game,  doesn't  it?  And  I  can  pay  no 
higher  tribute  to  your  splendid  chivalry  and 
superb  mendacity,  my  A.E.F.  (of  both 
which  qualities  you  are  justly  proud)  than 
by  saying  that  never,  never  did  you  fail  to 
make  me  feel  that  the  party  would  have 
been  a  dismal  failure  without  me.  I  have 
been  in  hospitals  with  you  when  you  were 
dying,  and  I  had  to  smile  at  you,  and  when 
I  thought  that  I  was,  and  I  had  to  smile 
at  myself — and  that  was  a  good  deal  the 
easier  of  the  two.  I've  wi'itten  your  letters 
for  you,  when  you  hadn't  any  fingers  to 
write  with,  or  when  you  hadn't  any  words — 
when  you  had  been  so  brave  that  you 
couldn't  tell  them  about  it,  or  when  you  had 
been  so  weak.  I  think  that  I  have  looked  at 
seven  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  photo- 
graphs that  you  carried  with  you,  and  once 
in  a  while  the  lady  has  been  so  devastatingly 
plain  that  I've  barely  been  able  to  murmur 
a  feeble,  "Hasnt  she  got  a  nice  straight 

[5] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


look  in  her  eyes?"  and  the  baby  has  been  so 
fantastically  ugly  that  I've  just  managed  to 
gasp  heartily  but  ambiguously,  "Well,  that 
is  a  baby!" — but,  oh,  I've  loved  them  all. 
I  have  taught  you  my  French,  and  you 
have  taught  me  yours — and  they're  both  very 
good  languages.  I  may  also  state  that 
though  the  Alexandrines  of  Racine  and  Cor- 
neille,  those  companions  of  my  childhood, 
may  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer  with  age,  I 
firmly  expect  to  go  down  to  my  grave  say- 
ing, "Beaucoup  francs,"  and  "Ca  ne  fait 
rien,"  and  "Pas  compris."  "Ah,  oui,"  my 
A.E.F.,  we  are  citizens  of  the  same  far 
country  and  speakers  of  the  same  tongue — 
I'll  say  we  are!  We  need  no  overseas  rib- 
bons to  identify  us;  we  all  have  the  pass- 
word. A.w.o.l.  has,  alas,  no  mystery  for  us, 
nor  yet  has  goldfish,  to  our  sorrow;  we 
aren't  ignorant  of  the  technical  meaning  of 
salvage,  but  we  occasionally  use  it  to  camou- 
flage a  short,  ugly  word  that  we  were  wont 

[6] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


to  employ;  "stealing"  isn't  fashionable  in 
the  A.E.F.,  but  salvaging  certainly  is. 
When  we  say  M.P.,  we  don't  mean  member 
of  parliament,  nor  do  we  invariably  refer  to 
olive  drab  when  we  say  O.D.  And  do  we 
occasionally  yield  to  mirth  when  one  of 
those  unlucky  ones  who  wasn't  with  us  looks 
at  us  in  pale  amazement  as  we  babble  lightly 
on  about  A.P.M.'s  and  A.P.O.'s,  R.T.O.'s 
and  Q.M.C.'s?  Do  we?  I'll  say  we  do! 
Though  time  was,  my  A.E.F.,  when  we 
didn't  know  what  even  those  magic  letters 
stood  for;  I  can  remember  trying  to  find 
out  in  a  sweltering  and  desperate  Washing- 
ton, and  I  can  remember  being  told  by  a 
sweltering  and  desperate  official  that  they 
didn't  stand  for  anything!  So  maybe  we'd 
better  not  be  too  superior. 

You've  taught  me  more  than  your  lan- 
guage, my  A.E.F.  You've  taught  me  that 
there  is  nothing  better  than  the  average  man 
— the  man  who  is  building  bridges  in  Ore- 

m 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


gon  and  planting  corn  in  Iowa,  driving  a 
truck  in  Newark  or  an  engine  in  Nebraska 
— that,  whether  he  has  a  cattle  ranch  in 
Texas  or  a  hardware  store  in  Tennessee,  he 
is  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes  and  comrades 
are  made — because  he  is  the  A.E.F. — ^lie  is 
you.  I  don't  idolize  you,  for  all  that  I  love 
you;  well,  well  do  I  know  your  faults — did 
you  ever  hide  them?  Intolerant,  arrogant, 
over-confident;  taking  for  granted  that  the 
best  is  none  too  good  for  you;  too  swift  to 
draw  conclusions,  too  slow  to  relinquish 
them;  sure  that  if  things  are  not  done  as 
you  would  do  them,  they  must  be  done 
wrong;  reckless  of  consequences  to  yourself 
and  others — no  saint,  my  A.E.F.  But  you 
are  the  average  American,  and  you  are  more 
generous,  more  chivalrous,  more  humorous 
and  gentle  and  gallant  and  strong  and  fine 
than  any  knight  of  Arthur's  court — and  a 
little  maid  whose  comrade  you  were  for 
many  weary  months  will  love  and  honor  you 

[8] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


until  she  dies.  Because  you  did  something 
for  her  that  she  can  never  repay — no,  not 
though  she  served  you  all  her  life  with  the 
hands  and  feet  and  heart  and  head  that  were 
so  eager  to  help  you.  You  took  the  world 
that  she  lived  in — her  little,  narrow,  pretty 
world,  full  of  furs  and  frills  and  flowers  and 
foolish  pleasant  things — you  took  her  little 
world  and  made  it  safe  for  democracy. 
Humanity  and  democracy  I  There  is  a  man 
who  uses  those  words  often,  and  whom  they 
have  mocked  at  for  using  them,  calling  them 
the  vague  generalities  of  a  visionary.  But 
we — we  know,  you  and  I,  of  what  he  is 
speaking;  and  so  long  as  I  live  I  shall  re- 
member that  the  greatest  lesson  that  you 
taught  me  was  that  those  vague  generalities 
were  the  only  realities  worth  living  for — 
and  worth  dying  for,  too.  Democracy — 
we  learned  that  the  railroad  engineer  was 
just  as  good  a  fellow  as  the  railroad  mag- 
nate ;  Humanity — that  the  railroad  magnate 

[9] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


is  just  as  good  a  fellow  as  the  engineer.  Be- 
cause we  weren't  snobs,  were  we,  my 
A.E.F.?  We  weren't  snobbish  even  about 
the  upper  classes;  they  were  all  right  when 
you  got  to  know  them.  You  see,  they  were 
that  vague  generality,  Humanity — and  you, 
who  were  both  human  and  democratic, 
learned  how  ridiculously  unimportant  were 
the  great  accidents  of  birth  and  fortune. 
Why,  the  only  man  that  we  ever  knew  who 
could  be  cheerful  and  K.P.  at  the  same  time 
was  a  Harvard  graduate  whose  income  ran 
into  higher  mathematics  I 

And  because  I've  loved  you  so — ^because 
we  were  such  pals — I  want  you  to  come  back 
to  me  just  once,  my  A.E.F.,  before  you 
leave  me  forever.  Come  and  sit  beside  me 
just  once  more,  and  let's  talk;  I've  such  a 
lot  of  things  to  say.  We've  had  some  won- 
derful talks,  haven't  we  ?  In  the  little  room 
at  G.H.Q.,  with  the  gay  curtains  that  we 
were   making   for   the   gas   school   turning 

[10] 


*tf 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


its  dreariness  to  brightness  and  the  bitter 
night  outside  held  at  bay  by  the  roaring 
little  stove;  the  Argonne  that  you  had  left 
behind  you  a  few  hours  ago,  tearing  through 
the  mud  and  rain  on  your  motor-cycle, 
seemed  very  far  away,  but  its  shadows  were 
in  your  weary  young  eyes  and  on  your 
strained  young  face.  In  an  hour  you  must 
be  off  again  with  your  despatches  through 
that  hateful  night — and  you  must  ride  with- 
out lights.  Oh,  my  A.E.F.,  sitting  there  in 
the  shabby  room  with  your  tired  head  in 
your  shaking  hands  and  the  thought  of  that 
black  ride  to  horror  to  shake  you  further — 
you'll  never  know  how  I  longed  to  give  you 
lights!  And  I  kneeled  before  the  little 
stove,  making  the  coffee  that  was  to  give 
you  warmth,  broiling  the  steak  that  was  to 
give  you  strength,  and  praying— I  who  am 
not  much  given  to  prayer.  I  think  that 
someone  must  have  heard  it,  too,  because 
when  you  left  there  were  the  lights  of  laugh- 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


ter  in  your  eyes,  and  your  hands  were  stead- 
ied to  endurance,  and  you  were  whistling 
under  your  breath — a  reckless,  haunting,  ab- 
surd little  tune,  that  I  had  danced  to  half 
a  hundred  times.  But  I  cried  myself  to 
sleep  that  night,  my  A.E.F.,  because  I 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  you,  so  young,  so 
heart-breakingly  young,  and  so  mortally 
tired,  going  whistling  back  through  the 
darkness  into  that  hell. — Do  you  remember 
the  walks  that  we  used  to  take  back  to  my 
billet — a  mile  and  a  half  through  the  rain 
and  mud — but.  Heavens,  how  we  used  to 
laugh  and  chatter!  All  the  j^ears  that  were 
gone  to  talk  about — all  the  years  to  come, 
if  whatever  Gods  may  be  were  merciful — 
we  planned  a  new  world,  there  in  the  rain 
and  the  mud.  Sometimes  your  face  would 
be  grim  enough,  and  you  would  announce 
with  bitterness  and  conviction  that  you 
hadn't  studied  integral  calculus  for  five 
years  to  break  rocks  in  the  road  for  five 

[12] 


MY    A.     E.     r. 


months;  and  that  when  those  blanketty 
blank  shavetails  drove  by,  spattering  your 
blue  overalls  with  that  everlasting  mud,  you 
felt  so  like  a  Bolshevik  that  you  could  learn 
Russian  in  six  lessons.  But  five  minutes 
later  the  narrow  street  would  be  ringing 
with  your  laughter ! 

I  remember,  too,  the  first  time  that 
you  came  into  my  little  blue  and  gold 
sitting-room  in  that  land  of  blue  and 
gold  that  you  had  been  given  to  play  in. 
The  sitting-room  was  my  present  to  you; 
for  many  months  I  kept  it  full  of  flowers 
for  you — there  were  chocolates  for  you  to 
eat  and  cigarettes  for  you  to  smoke  and 
magazines  for  you  to  look  at — in  the  after- 
noon there  was  tea,  and  in  the  evening  there 
were  little  cups  of  black  coffee,  and  always, 
always,  there  was  a  very  small  person  who 
loved  you,  and  never  got  tired  of  hearing  of 
your  dreams,  the  happy  ones  and  the  broken 
ones,  too ;  we  mended  a  good  many  of  them 


[13] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


between  iis,  you  and  I — sometimes  with 
laughter,  and  sometimes,  for  all  that  you 
were  so  gay  and  reckless  and  defiant — some- 
times with  tears.  That  first  day  when  you 
came  in  it  was  tea  time.  You  stood  in  the 
doorway,  so  tall  that  you  almost  had  to 
stoop,  and  looked  into  the  gay,  kind  little 
room,  gleaming  with  its  open  fire  and  rose- 
colored  flowers,  its  soft  lights  and  its  sing- 
ing kettle,  and  after  a  long  while,  you  said, 
very  softly,  "Gee."  But  you  said  it  as 
though  it  were  a  prayer,  and  there  were 
tears  in  your  eyes — and  I  understood,  my 
A.E.F.  It  had  been  long  and  long 
since  you  had  seen  a  little  fire  or  rosy 
flowers — a  long,  dark  time  since  you 
had  heard  a  kettle  singing — and  you  had 
wondered  too  often  whether  you  would 
ever  see  or  hear  them  again.  Then  there 
was  that  time  in  the  Louvre.  You  had  on 
two  wound  stripes  and  a  Croix  de  Guerre 
and  a  D.S.C.;  and  when  I  asked  you  if  you 


[14] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


knew  where  the  Rembrandts  were  you  said 
yes,  and  couldn't  you  show  me?  We  did 
have  the  most  beautiful  time  that  day.  You 
were  from  Fall  Center,  Kansas,  you  told 
me,  and  you  had  never  seen  any  pictures 
before;  but  this  was  the  twelfth  time  that 
you  had  been  to  the  Louvre,  so  you  were 
making  up  for  lost  time.  Had  I  noticed 
that  Holbein  over  there,  and  the  little 
Italian  Madonna,  smiling  down  at  the  baby 
in  her  arms?  You  loved  the  way  that  she 
was  ignoring  you  and  the  general  public; 
most  of  the  pictures  seemed  to  take  an  un- 
due interest  in  it!  When  we  got  through 
looking  at  the  special  pastel  exhibition  up- 
stairs, and  you  had  shown  me  the  craps 
that  the  early  Romans  used  to  shoot, 
couldn't  we  have  tea  together?  True,  we 
didn't  know  each  other's  names,  but  we 
knew  that  we  both  liked  Titian's  Man  with 
the  Glove,  and  a  certain  lovely  shadowy 
landscape  of  Corot's,  which  was  much  more 

[15] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


important.  And  how  about  dinner  that 
evening?  They  were  singing  Tosca  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  and  you  wanted  dreadfully 
to  hear  it — they  didn't  sing  it  in  Fall  Cen- 
ter. Heavens,  how  we  did  talk,  my  A.E.F., 
of  shoes  and  ships  and  sealing-wax  for 
hour  after  hour,  and  when  we  pushed  back 
the  coffee  cups  I  thought  of  how  terrify- 
ingly  far  you  had  traveled  from  that  little 
Kansas  town,  and  wondered  what  you  were 
going  to  take  back  to  it — whether  you  would 
help  it  with  your  new  knowledge  or  hurt  it 
with  intolerance.  Because  it  is  largely  in 
your  strong,  young  hands  that  the  fate  of 
the  Fall  Centers  lie — and  through  them  the 
fate  of  America — and  through  America  the 
fate  of  the  world.  Somewhat  of  a  respon- 
sibility, isn't  it?  And  you  look  down  at 
those  brown  hands  of  yours  with  an  in- 
credulous and  deprecatory  smile.  Smile 
away,  my  A.E.F.!  In  your  heart  well  you 
know  that  it  is  true.    And  it's  what  I  want 


[16] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


to  talk  to  you  about,  in  this  last  talk  of 
all. 

Before  you  go  away  from  us  forever — 
before  you  wave  farewell  to  us  around  that 
last  corner — you  have  one  more  tale  to  tell. 
Day  in  and  day  out,  night  in  and  night  out, 
in  far-off  France  you  dreamed  of  the  in- 
credible day  when  you  would  come  up  the 
village  street  through  the  summer  twilight, 
and  see  the  lamp  shining  in  the  window  of 
the  little  house,  and  clear  the  porch  hung 
with  honey-suckle  in  one  bound  and  the  nar- 
row threshold  in  another,  and  enter  into  the 
land  of  Heart's  Desire.  Small  matter  if  the 
village  street  were  called  Broadway  or  Main 
Street  or  Orchard  Lane — for  you  the  twi- 
light was  always  sweet  with  flowers,  and 
the  light  was  always  shining  in  the  window. 
But  when  you  found  your  breath — when  the 
wonder  of  it  all  ebbed  enough  to  let  you  find 
words  again — what  did  you  tell  those  eager 
ones,  my  A.E.F.?     There  were  so  many 

[17] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


things  that  they  wanted  to  know;  they  had 
been  waiting,  bewildered  and  dazed  by  all 
the  words  and  all  the  books  and  all  the 
papers,  until  you  came  back  to  tell  them 
what  had  really  happened.  Because  they 
were  so  sure  that  you  must  know — why,  you 
were  theirs,  and  you  had  been  there — on 
your  words  hung  all  the  law  and  the  proph- 
ets! What  did  you  tell  them,  my  A.E.F.? 
You  have  been  back  long  enough  now  to 
see  things  pretty  clearly — long  enough,  I 
believe,  to  regret  some  of  the  quick  and  bit- 
ter judgments  that  you  passed  with  your 
tongue — never,  never,  with  your  heart. 
Long  enough  to  see  that  America  has  great 
need,  in  these  hard  days,  of  faith  and  hope 
and  charity — and  that  the  greatest  of  these 
is  charity.  You,  my  comrade,  were  the 
defender  of  her  ideals — you  are  still  their 
guardian.  If,  careless  and  unthinking,  you 
belittle  the  dreams  for  which  you  fought — if 
you  belittle  those  who  fought  beside  you  and 

[18] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


those  who  tried  to  help  you  fight,  you  are 
unfaithful  to  that  trust.  For  there  are 
many  who  are  wondering,  sick  at  heart, 
whether  the  game  was  worth  the  candle  of 
their  sacrifice  and  yours,  if  the  tales  that 
they  have  heard  are  true. 

What  of  the  War?  Of  the  French,  of 
the  British,  of  the  Germans?  Of  the  Y  and 
the  Red  Cross?  Of  the  officers  and  of  the 
men?  Tell  them  true,  my  A.E.F.,  tell 
them  true !  Here  in  America  to-day,  we  are 
fighting  another  War — perhaps  an  even 
greater  one — a  war  against  selfishness  and 
materialism  and  intolerance  and  hatred.  It 
will  be  a  losing  fight  if  we  go  armed  only 
with  suspicion  and  bitterness  and  despair. 
You  must  give  us  other  weapons  to  fight 
with — enduring  faith  in  others,  enduring 
trust  in  ourselves.  That  is  why  I  am  ask- 
ing you  to  tell  them,  before  you  go,  the  real 
story  of  what  you  found  over  there — so  that 
they  may  find  courage,  over  here.     Don't 

^9]  ~ 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


pass  on  the  catchwords  that  you  have  ban- 
died about  amongst  you — tell  them  the 
truth,  as  you  have  finally  tested  it  out  for 
3^ourself,  as  you  have  drawn  it  from  out  the 
well  of  your  heart. 

Because  they  are  going  to  believe  you — 
and  you  dare  not  play  them  false. 

What  of  the  War?  It  is  hard  for  us  to 
realize  how  much  of  it  America  has  for- 
gotten— how  incredibly  much  of  it  she 
never  knew.  To  us,  my  A.E.F.,  even  when 
months  had  passed  after  that  unforgettable 
day  in  November,  it  was  still  the  realest 
thing  in  the  world — far  realer  than  the 
lovely,  shadowy,  silvery  figure  of  Peace 
that  had  stolen  quietly  in  to  take  its  place. 
We  were  still  living  in  the  ruin  and  wreck 
that  it  had  left  behind;  how  could  we  for- 
get it?  Its  red  hand  was  on  us  still — hold- 
ing back  the  trains  on  which  we  traveled, 
turning  us  from  the  destinations  where  we 
would  go,  hurling  us  into  strange  and  hated 

[20] 


MY    A.    E.     F. 

places,  doling  out  to  us  the  same  detested 
meat  and  drink  that  its  savage  hospitality 
had  offered  us  of  old,  lashing  us  on  to  keep 
our  rifles  bright,  our  bayonets  sharp,  driv- 
ing our  tired  feet  to  the  old  drills,  turning 
our  tired  faces  to  new  problems.  It  wasn't 
very  easy  to  forget  it — its  fingers  were  still 
at  our  throats!  Even  now,  going  quietly 
about  our  business  in  the  gay  serenity  of  the 
little  towns  or  the  triumphant  clamor  of  the 
great  ones,  we  pause  sometimes  with  quick- 
caught  breath  and  startled  eyes — remember- 
ing, remembering — until  this  charmed  secur- 
ity seems  the  dream — that  far-off  nightmare 
the  reality.  But  the  things  which  were  daily 
bread  to  us  are  dust  and  ashes  to  the  ones 
who  loved  us  best. 

You  found  that  the  bits  of  colored  cloth 
that  you  wore  on  your  shoulders,  your  joy 
and  pride  and  common  knowledge,  spoke 
an  alien  tongue  to  them.  The  little  scarlet 
"1"  which  to  some  of  you  was  dearer  than 


MY     A.     E.     F. 

your  heart's  blood — they  didn't  know 
whether  it  stood  for  the  first  army  or  the 
first  regiment  or  the  first  corps  or  the  first 
division — and  hideous  to  relate,  my  A.E.F., 
they  didn't  care!  The  Indian  star  that 
shone  so  bravely — and  that  for  some  of  you 
shone  brighter  than  the  irtorning  and  the 
evening  star  together — for  them  shed  no 
special  radiance.  All  the  numbers  that 
made  your  heart  beat  faster  and  your  souls 
exult — two  and  six,  three  and  two,  four 
and  two,  eight  and  nine — I  could  fill  this 
page  with  theu'  music,  but  to  them  they 
were  numbers,  nothing  more.  When  you 
landed  in  New  Jersey  that  gray  morning 
and  limped  laughing  back  into  your  heri- 
tage, there  was  an  eager  stranger  who 
asked  you,  pointing  to  your  overseas  ribbon 
with  its  galaxy  of  bronze  stars,  how  you 
got  your  Croix  de  Guerre — and  you  told 
him  with  a  smile  that  it  wasn't  exactly  a 
Croix  de  Guerre;  and  a  still  more  eager 

[22] 


MY     A.     E.     r. 


friend  asked,  pointing  to  your  D.S.C.,  what 
campaign  that  ribbon  stood  for.  The  radi- 
ance never  faded  from  your  smile  while  you 
explained  to  him  that  it  wasn't  exactly  a 
campaign  ribbon,  but  your  eyes  were  sud- 
denly shadowed  with  an  immense  bewilder- 
ment. Your  ribbons !  It  was  all  very  well 
for  you  to  laugh  at  them,  and  to  inform 
the  awe-stricken  public  that  the  French 
gave  away  Croix  de  Guerres  for  cigarettes 
— the  unadorned  ribbon  for  Meccas,  the 
bronze  star  for  Camels,  and  the  palm  for 
Egyptian  Deities — it  was  fair  enough  to 
you  io  insist  that  in  your  outfit  they  issued 
D.S.C.'s  instead  of  socks — but  in  your  heart 
you  had  firmly  believed  that  the  very  cats 
in  the  streets  would  know  the  unutterable 
meaning  and  the  inestimable  value  of  those 
bright  bits  of  patterned  silk.  It  was  fairly 
staggering.  Possibly  they  thought  that  the 
white  stars  on  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Medal 
of  Honor  stood  for  the  number  of  Liberty 

[23] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


Bonds  that  the  family  had  purchased?  Why, 
a  very  lovely  lady  calmly  informed  me  that 
one  of  my  friends  had  been  awarded  the 
S.O.S.  for  bravery.  If  it  didn't  move  you 
to  despairing  mirth  it  would  make  you  cry. 
There's  no  denying  it;  as  far  as  they  are 
concerned  the  war  is  so  dead  that  it  would 
make  Julius  Ceesar  or  a  doornail  seem  ani- 
mated. Perhaps  that's  just  as  well,  and 
sane  and  right  and  normal.  While  it  was 
alive,  it  was  even  more  alive  for  many  of 
them  than  it  was  for  us;  we  mustn't  ever 
forget  that.  For  them  it  had  all  the  terrible 
intensity  of  a  nightmare,  instead  of  being 
the  deadly  commonplace  horror  that  it  was 
for  us.  For  them,  it  was  always  Tom  or 
Dick  or  Harry  doing  something  frightful 
with  a  bayonet  or  a  hand-grenade,  or  having 
something  even  more  frightful  done  to  him. 
They  didn't  realize  that  what  you  dreaded 
infinitely  more  than  the  actual  fighting — 
which  after  all,  in  its  brief  and  lurid  flashes. 


[24] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


seemed  like  a  bad  dream — was  the  everlast- 
ing hiking;  arriving  at  night  all  in  from 
thirty  kilometers,  and  finding  that  you  had 
ten  more  to  hike;  the  everlasting  rain  and 
mud  and  cold ;  the  everlasting  hunger,  occa- 
sionally appeased  by  the  succulent  hard 
tack,  the  abominated  corned  Bill  and  gold- 
fish, less  occasionally  mocked  with  a  few 
spoonfuls  of  cold  canned  tomatoes ;  and  that 
worse  hunger  of  loneliness,  a  very  passion 
of  homesickness  and  longing  and  despair — 
the  misery  of  a  frightened  child  alone  in  the 
dark,  with  morning  a  great  way  off.  That 
longing  did  not  die  with  the  armistice,  my 
A.E.F.  It  throve  in  the  gray  little  French 
villages,  in  the  bright  little  German  ones; 
it  walked  with  you  by  day  and  lay  with  you 
by  night;  it  never  loosed  your  hand  until 
you  went  up  the  gang-plank.  It  was  our 
last  battle,  and  we  fought  it  together.  After 
all,  it's  just  as  well  that  there  are  a  great 
many  things  that  they  have  forgotten — a 

[25] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


great  many  that  they'll  never  have  to  forget, 
because  they  never  knew  them ;  even  if  they 
do  think  that  Belleau  Woods  is  a  part  of  the 
Argonne  Forest,  it  isn't  going  to  shake 
the  progress  of  the  world !  Let  them  forget 
the  war  that  you  fought,  my  A.E.F. ;  but 
never,  never  while  you  have  words  to  speak 
and  breath  with  which  to  speak  them,  let 
them  forget  why  it  was  you  fought  it. 
Sometimes  it  almost  seems  that  they  are 
forgetting  even  that.  You  fought  so  that 
all  men  might  share  your  hard-won  heritage 
of  freedom  and  liberty — and  because  you 
loved  her  very  dearly,  for  a  little  space  you 
left  the  lovely  lady  with  the  torch,  so  that 
she  might  lift  it  even  higher  when  she  wel- 
comed you  home.  There  are  some  who  tell 
us  that  we  have  done  our  task,  that  we 
must  draw  aside — that  the  torch  is  shining 
for  us  alone,  and  not  for  all  mankind.  I 
think  that  they  are  trying  to  cheat  us  of 
the  very  fruit  of  our  victory — the  glory  of 

[26] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 

helping  a  tired  and  broken  world  to  its  feet. 
There  are  some  of  them — and  I  hold  them  a 
trifle  lower  than  Benedict  Arnold — who 
wish  to  take  the  laurels  that  you  have 
brought  them,  and  twist  and  warp  and 
strain  them  into  an  ugly  political  weapon. 
They  say  (and  it  is  strange  hearing  for  us, 
my  A.E.F.)  that  America  must  play  safe. 
Play  safe!  We  had  forgotten  that  that 
was  considered  policy.  With  us  it  meant 
shame  and  dishonor  and  an  ugly  death  while 
day  was  breaking  for  the  world — how  if  it 
should  mean  that  for  America?  Oh,  tell 
them,  tell  them,  those  blind  ones,  that  you, 
who  have  fought  to  give  a  weary  Avorld 
peace,  will  fight  to  keep  it.  You  are  a  sol- 
dier, my  A.E.F.,  and  you  dare  not  play 
safe. 

What  of  those  friends  who  fought  by  our 
side — what  account  are  you  going  to  give 
of  them?  Let's  take  the  two  that  you  knew 
best — Tommy  Atkins   and  Jacques  Poilu. 

[27] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


Since  I'm  talking  to  you  and  not  to  the 
peace  conference,  I'm  not  going  to  pretend 
that  your  face  lights  up  at  the  mention  of 
these  gentlemen,  or  that  a  burst  of  lyric 
enthusiasm  wells  from  your  fervent  heart 
to  your  fervent  lips.  It  doesn't.  They  have 
fallen  victim  to  some  of  your  most  ani- 
mated and  unwarranted  catchwords.  You 
don't  have  to  tell  me  what  you  say  about 
them — I  know  it  only  too  well.  What  I 
want  you  to  tell  the  breathless  little  group 
sitting  on  the  back  porch  or  in  the  front 
parlor  is  what  you  think  about  them.  Only, 
most  dear  and  most  heedless,  do  a  little 
thinking  first.  You  can,  when  you  put  your 
mind  to  it. 

Tommy  first.  Of  course,  you  never  really 
did  see  much  of  him.  Your  principal  griev- 
ance against  him  was  that  you  had  a  very 
disagreeable  time  coming  over  in  his  ships, 
and  that  when  you  got  to  Winchester  (or 
its  equivalent)  the  only  fatted  calf  that  he 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


offered  to  the  American  prodigal  was  what 
you  bitterly  paraphrased  as  "jaam  and  tay," 
substituted  for  breakfast,  dinner  and  sup- 
per. Alas,  poor  Tommy,  he  gave  you  the 
best  that  he  had — and  he  went  short  even 
on  that,  so  that  you  might  come  over  on 
those  reviled  ships  of  his — and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  those  same  reviled  ships,  you 
might  never  have  had  a  chance  to  experi- 
ment with  jam  and  tea,  or  salmon  and 
corned  beef,  or  vin  rouge  and  vin  blanc. 
Which  means  that  you  might  never  have 
gotten  over  at  all,  my  A.E.r.  The  real 
difficulty  was  that  you  thought  that  you 
had  met  Tommy  before,  under  very  un- 
pleasant circumstances  indeed;  and  you 
pranced  over  to  meet  him  again  with  a  mind 
that  was  about  as  open  as  a  safe  with  a 
forgotten  combination,  and  a  traveling 
equipment  of  a  chip  on  either  shoulder.  It 
was  true  that  you  had  met  someone  who 
was  using  his  name  before — a  heavily  dis- 

[29] 


MY     A.     E.     r. 


guised,  blustering,  tyrannical  individual  in- 
troduced to  you  as  Mr.  Atkins  by  a  smooth- 
spoken, ingratiating  old  party  known  as 
German  Propaganda.  The  first  time  that 
you  met  him  you  were  a  very  small,  freckle- 
faced,  bored  little  boy,  sitting  on  a  hard 
bench  and  reading  the  letter  of  introduc- 
tion that  German  Propaganda  had  written 
to  you  in  a  little  book  called  "History  of 
the  U.S.A."  He  took  great  pains  to  state 
what  a  wicked  and  unprincipled  fellow 
Tommy  had  been,  and  how  he'd  tried  to 
steal  everything  that  you  held  dearest  from 
you;  and  while  he  professed  faint  hopes 
that  the  scalawag  might  have  reformed,  he 
managed  to  stress  the  crime  a  good  deal 
more  than  the  reformation.  But  he  didn't 
tell  you  that  George  Third,  the  old  Prus- 
sian who  started  the  Revolutionary  War, 
was  so  German  that  he  could  hardly  speak 
English;  that  the  war  was  so  unpopular  in 
England  that  they  had  to  hire  Hessians  to 

[30] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


fight  it;  that  all  her  greatest  men  railed 
against  it  in  and  out  of  season.  He  was 
very  discreet  about  these  facts,  wasn't  he? 
And  the  next  time  that  he  introduced  his 
Mr.  Atkins  was  only  a  few  years  ago,  and 
he  was  almost  in  tears  over  his  dreadful 
conduct;  he  gave  us  fair  warning  that  the 
unscrupulous  wretch  had  subsidized  our 
press  and  bribed  the  casual  observer  and 
corrupted  our  officials  to  such  an  extent  that 
it  was  impossible  to  believe  a  word  that  they 
said,  and  he  assured  us  that  the  fairy  tales 
that  they  were  indulging  in  anent  wicked 
little  Belgium  and  haughty  and  degenerate 
France  were  enough  to  make  the  blood  of 
an  honest  German  run  cold.  So  that  it  was 
this  purely  fictitious  Tommy  that  you  went 
to  meet — only  he  isn't  the  one  that  the  little 
group  listening  in  the  twilight  are  waiting 
to  hear  about.  They  want  to  hear  about  the 
real  one — the  one  who  got  up  in  the  gray 
light  of  a  London  dawn  to  give  you  so  pas- 

[31] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


sionate  a  welcome  that  it  fairly  took  your 
breath  away — the  one  that  you  found  later 
with  his  back  against  a  ruined  wall  in 
France,  fighting,  fighting,  bloody  and 
broken  and  white  to  the  lips,  but  managing, 
somehow,  to  throw  you  a  little,  stiff,  tor- 
tured grin,  and  managing,  too,  by  his  own 
grit  and  the  grace  of  God,  to  carry  on. 
If  you  ran  into  him  in  France,  that  is  how 
you  saw  him — and  if  you  didn't,  don't  pass 
on  any  picturesque  gossip  that  you  will 
make  a  little  more  picturesque  in  passing. 
Someone  might  believe  it.  But  you  might 
tell  them  about  Tommy's  younger  brothers 
— the  Australians,  the  Canadians,  the  New 
Zealanders  and  South  Africans — you  loved 
them  like  your  own,  didn't  you,  Yank? 
You'll  tell  the  world  you  did  I 

How  about  Jacques  Poilu?  You  had 
another  name  for  him,  and  you  used  it  with 
more  energy  than  discretion.     For  a  good 

[32] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 

many  months  you  made  his  own  land  echo 
with  your  plaints  as  to  the  devious  ways  of 
the  "frog."  He  got  in  your  way  when  you 
were  driving;  he  wrung  every  sou  that  you 
possessed  from  your  feeble  and  reluctant 
fingers;  his  offspring  made  life  a  burden  to 
you  with  their  clamors  for  "ceegaretts"  and 
"chooeen-gom" ;  his  feminine  relatives  pur- 
sued you  tirelessly,  unsolicited  victims  of 
your  fatal  fascination.  All  very,  very  har- 
rowing. I  used  to  try  conscientiously  to 
reconcile  this  pathetic  picture  of  the  mar- 
tyred young  exile  with  the  A.E.F.  that  I 
saw  before  my  puzzled  eyes,  a  vivid  figure 
of  mischief  and  resourcefulness  and  reck- 
lessness and  sheer,  heart-warming  charm, 
playing  endless  games  of  ball  and  marbles 
in  the  little  parks  and  narrow  streets  with 
the  enchanted  children,  li3tening  with  beau- 
tiful deference  to  the  incomprehensible  tales 
of  the  old  grandmothers  in  the  doorways, 
flirting    assiduously    and    debonairly    with 

[33] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


the  velvet-eyed  girls,  bargaining  and  chaf- 
fing and  swapping  stories  with  Jacques  him- 
self. True,  he  got  in  your  way  when  you 
were  driving — but  at  the  rate  at  which  you 
went  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  keep  out  of 
your  way,  my  A.E.F.;  true,  he  cheated  you 
often,  but  in  that  land  which  we  are  firmly 
convinced  is  God's  country,  your  own  people 
cheated  you  quite  as  energetically — I  saw 
them  do  it;  true,  his  children  begged  shame- 
lessly from  you — but  you  taught  them  to  do 
it,  and  filled  their  eager  little  hands  in  spite 
of  any  and  all  protests,  and  did  your  level 
best  to  spoil  them  forever ;  true,  the  maidens 
of  the  land  fell  victim  to  your  charm — but 
you  asserted  it  brazenly,  my  dear,  and 
seemed  to  take  a  melancholy  satisfaction  in 
the  results.  Was  all  this  just  an  optical 
illusion  on  my  part?  Sometimes  I  used  to 
feel  that  one  of  us  must  be  the  victim  of  an 
hallucination — because  surely  no  one  in  his 
sane   senses   would  continue  to  lavish   af- 


[34] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


fection  and  attention  on  the  object  of  his 
disparagement!  Perhaps  I  was  just  dream- 
ing that  I  hardly  ever  saw  you  without 
some  Gallic  mite  perched  on  your  shoulder 
or  clinging  to  your  hand  or  trotting  at 
your  side — dreaming  that  you  were  everlast- 
ingly polishing  those  boots  of  yours  so  that 
pretty  Marie  Adelaide  Therese  could  see 
her  face  in  them — dreaming  that  you  stead- 
ily persisted  in  breaking  every  rule  of  the 
canteen  in  order  to  purchase  cigarettes  and 
chocolates  for  "them  frog  guys  that  hadn't 
any  of  their  own" — dreaming  that  you 
would  linger  time  and  time  again  to  tell  me 
of  your  adored  and  adoring  landlady — 
"Honest,  she  treats  me  like  a  prince;  be- 
lieve me,  if  I  was  her  own  kid,  she  couldn't 
treat  me  better.  I  want  to  get  her  a  pres- 
ent; you  tell  me  what  she'd  like,  Petite." 
Why,  the  very  nickname  that  you  gave  to 
me  was  borrowed  from  France — and  I  loved 
it — and  you — and  her.    I  wasn't  dreaming; 

[35] 


MY    A.     E.     F. 


but  I'm  thinking  that  perhaps  sometimes 
you  were,  my  A.E.F. 

I  haven't  much  to  say  to  you  about  the 
Germans,  largely  because  I  find  that  when 
I  try  to  talk  about  them  I  lose  my  voice 
and  my  temper  and  my  sense  of  humor  and 
a  good  many  other  things  worth  hanging 
on  to.  Besides,  I  think  that  you  can  lose  all 
of  them  just  as  well  as  I  can!  Of  course, 
when  you  paid  them  a  visit  last  fall  you 
found  that  you  were  pretty  nearly  comfor- 
table for  the  first  time  in  many  weary 
months,  and  it  rather  went  to  your  head. 
You  found  yourself  wondering  whether 
people  who  offered  you  the  best  bed  in  the 
place  with  guttural  noises  of  welcome  and 
hospitality  could  be  demons  incarnate,  and 
somehow  you  counted  it  for  righteousness 
to  them  that  there  wasn't  any  shell  hole 
in  the  side  of  the  house.  But  it  didn't  take 
long  for  the  first  glow  to  wear  off,  and  be- 
fore   many   moons    had    passed   you    had 

[36] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


pounced  on  the  illuminating  discovery  that 
when  even  the  most  inspired  demon  had  the 
choice  between  being  affable  or  being  shot 
at  dawn,  he'd  jolly  well  be  affable.  And  if 
you'll  just  tell  your  breathless  listeners  some 
of  the  things  that  you  told  me  about  the  in- 
dividuals that  you  soberly  referred  to  as 
"those  damned  Dutch — excuse  7ne,  lady," 
I'll  be  perfectly  contented — perfectly. 

About  the  "Y"  and  the  Red  Cross  and 
the  other  organizations  that  went  over  there 
to  help  you,  I  do  want  to  talk  to  you — and 
if  you  are  inclined  to  feel  resentful  of  any- 
thing that  I  may  say,  I  want  you  to  re- 
member, my  A.E.F.,  that  it's  because  I  love 
you  so  that  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  either 
ungrateful  or  ungracious — and  because  I 
am  afraid  that  you  will  have  to  own  that 
you  have  been  both.  To  save  my  life  I  can't 
understand  your  attitude  towards  us  who  so 
longed  to  help  you ;  who  worked  our  fingers 
to  the  bone,  morning,  night  and  noon,  to 

[37] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


give  you  a  little  comfort  and  a  little  happi- 
ness. I  am  speaking  now  of  "us"  as  or- 
ganizations, not  as  individuals.  On  the  in- 
dividual girl  you  lavished  such  a  wealth  of 
gratitude  and  praise  that  you  left  her  hum- 
bled and  bewildered  and  a  little  intoxicated ; 
but  on  the  organization  of  which  she  was  a 
symbol  you  have  heaped  unceasing  criticism 
and  unstinted  blame.  I  myself  happen  to 
be  a  Y  girl;  and  I  have  never  ceased  to  be 
proud  and  glad  of  that  fact.  The  only 
thing  that  I  was  prouder  of  than  the  tri- 
angle on  my  sleeve  was  the  U.  S.  on  my 
collar !  So  this  isn't  an  apology  on  my  part 
— it's  an  accusation.  I  dare  wager  that 
the  only  organization  over  there  for  which 
you  have  a  good  word  to  say  is  the  one  that 
you  saw  the  least  of — the  one  that,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  you  never  saw  at  all.  The 
Salvation  Army,  with  its  tiny  band  and  un- 
complex  duties,  did  splendid  work;  but  no 
more  splendid  work  than  was  done  by  the 

[38] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 

other  organizations  that  were  woven  into 
the  very  fabric  of  your  daily  lives.  I  say 
that  advisedly.  Look  up,  for  example,  the 
number  of  Y  workers  killed,  wounded,  cited 
and  decorated  for  bravery  in  trying  desper- 
ately to  help  you  who  were  so  heedless 
of  their  help;  where  will  you  find,  amongst 
your  own  ranks,  a  non-combatant  outfit  with 
such  a  record?  Many  a  combatant  one 
might  glory  in  it!  You  were  almost  invari- 
ably lamentably  ungenerous  to  the  men  who, 
under  no  pressure  of  the  draft,  had  given 
up  fine  positions  safe  at  home  to  come  over 
and  slave  and  drudge  for  you  who  found 
no  word  or  commendation  for  them.  If  they 
were  unflaggingly  cheerful,  you  dismissed 
it  as  "sunshine-stuff,"  and  "taffy";  if  they 
were  occasionally  human  and  irritable,  you 
rent  the  heavens  above  and  the  earth  be- 
neath with  your  outraged  cries,  and  tore  to 
the  Y  for  paper  so  that  you  could  write 
home  at  once  to  Aunt  Minnie  and  tell  her 

[39] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


to  get  back  that  fifty  cents  that  she  gave  to 
the  misguided  organization  in  September. 
I  honestly  do  blush  for  you.  You  would 
take  everything  that  the  Y  gave  you — every 
mortal  thing — and  apparently  thought  that 
by  accepting  our  gifts  you  canceled  your 
debt.  We,  j^ou  assured  us  complacently, 
were  merely  the  instruments  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  kindly  selected  by  them  to  see 
that  their  contributions  reached  you  safely. 
Well,  we  happened  to  be  the  American 
people  ourselves,  and  besides  giving  you  our 
money,  we  gave  you  our  time  and  our 
strength  and  our  hearts  and  our  lives — and 
some  of  us  were  absurd  enough  to  wonder 
why  it  was  that  you  did  not  go  on  your 
knees  to  us — not  to  us,  the  individuals, 
amongst  whom  there  were  those  who  were 
faint-hearted  and  dishonest  and  bad  tem- 
pered and  incompetent,  because  we  hap- 
pened to  be  human  beings — but  to  us  as  an 
organization,   because   time   and   time   and 

[40] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


time  again  we  were  all  the  happiness  and 
all  the  comfort  and  all  the  refuge  from  de- 
spair that  you  had.  I  have  never  been  in 
one  Y  hut  (and  I  have  been  in  many;  we 
had  two  thousand  for  you!)  that  was  not 
crowded  to  the  doors.  Tell  me — tell  me, 
my  A.E.F.,  how  could  you  take  so  much 
and  give  so  little?  For  you  took,  day  after 
day,  and  night  after  night,  our  service  and 
our  shelter,  our  light  and  our  warmth,  ev- 
erything from  baseballs  to  Bibles;  books 
and  vaudevilles;  magazines  and  movies; 
writing  paper  and  music — and  every  single 
thing  you  took  for  granted.  If  you  never 
used  the  Y,  then  all  that  I  am  saying  is  not 
for  you;  but  cross  your  heart  and  hope  to 
die,  my  A.E.F.,  didn't  you  use  it  con- 
stantly? If  there  were  times  when  we 
weren't  with  you,  it  was  because,  alas,  we 
couldn't  be  everywhere — and  when  you 
seemed  to  need  us  most,  there  was  often  no 
way  to  get  to  you.     Surely  you  must  have 

[41] 


MY     A.     E,     F. 


realized  that  when  the  Army  couldn't  even 
get  your  corned  beef  up  to  you  it  wouldn't 
permit  us  to  bring  you  chocolates!  I  want 
you  to  tell  Aunt  Minnie,  who  gave  us  the 
fifty  cents  for  you,  and  Dad  and  Mother, 
who  gave  five  dollars,  and  little  Bobby,  who 
gave  a  nickel,  the  truth  about  us — for  their 
sake  as  much  as  for  ours,  and  most  of  all, 
for  Truth's.  You  needn't  soften  it  down  or 
touch  it  up  a  bit.  If  you  discovered  a  Y 
man  who  was  a  thorough  and  consistent 
grouch  or  one  who  charged  you  five  centimes 
more  than  you  thought  was  justifiable,  tell 
them  the  whole  horrible  tale;  but  in  the 
name  of  justice  and  fair  play  and  common 
decency,  my  A.E.F.,  tell  them  about  the 
other  times — the  hundreds  and  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  other  times  when  the 
Y  was  all  that  you  had  and  when  you  used 
it  mercilessly.  If  I  am  speaking  only 
of  the  Y,  it  is  because  I  knew  it  best 
and  because  it  gave  me  the  joy  of  being 

[42] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


with  you  for  many  months,  and  so  I  am 
eternally  grateful  to  it;  but  I  want  you 
to  tell  them  the  truth  about  every  organ- 
ization over  there  that  stretched  out  a 
hand  to  you — because,  by  and  large,  it 
makes  as  beautiful  a  story  as  even  the  most 
exacting  audience  could  care  to  hear.  And 
for  my  sake,  because  I  was  a  Y  girl,  and 
because  we  loved  each  other,  please  go  out 
of  your  way  to  tell  them  about  every  place 
that  you  found  us,  from  the  God-forsaken 
little  mud-hole  where  we  had  laboriously 
rigged  up  a  movie  machine  and  dug  up  a 
stove  to  burn  for  you,  and  hot  chocolate  in 
a  tin  can,  and  a  wheezy  graphophone  to 
sing  about  the  little  gray  home,  and  where 
we  were  duly  exultant  that  we  could  get  so 
much,  and  pretty  sad  that  it  was  so  little — 
to  the  incredible  loveliness  of  the  leave- 
areas,  where  we  took  the  most  wonderful 
casinos  set  in  the  most  wonderful  scenery 
in  the  world,  and  flung  the  doors  wide  and 


[43] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


asked  you  to  come  in  and  play  with  us — to 
see  the  best  shows  and  hear  the  best  singing 
and  eat  the  best  food  that  could  be  found — 
to  dance  on  the  best  floors  to  the  best  music 
that  you  ever  heard — and  with  the  best 
dancers,  too,  though  they  did  wear  flowered 
aprons  and  had  to  run  back  to  the  canteen 
between  times  to  give  you  ice  cream.  I  can't 
believe  that  if  you  were  ever  our  guest  at 
one  of  our  seven-day  house  parties — and  at 
my  house  we  used  to  entertain  over  three 
thousand  a  week! — I  can't  believe  that  you 
could  help  getting  a  little  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable when  you  remembered  some  of  the 
things  that  you  have  said  about  us.  Be- 
cause you  swore  that  you  had  never  had 
such  a  wonderful  time,  and  that  you  would 
never,  never  forget  it.  Have  you  forgotten, 
my  A.E.F.?  Gratitude  and  fair  play  and 
common  justice  are  good  things  to  remem- 
ber.   Remember  them  now! 

It's  getting  late — and  there's  such  a  lot 

[44] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


that  I  must  leave  unsaid.  Never  was  the 
day  made  long  enough  for  us  to  talk  in; 
always  twilight  fell  before  we  knew  it,  and 
we  had  time  only  for  the  word  that  we 
wanted  least  to  say — we  always  hated 
"Good-bye."  Now  it  is  time  to  go  and  talk 
to  them,  who  are  waiting  to  hear  you  be- 
fore you  go  forever.  Only  just  let's  sit 
here  for  a  minute  longer,  with  no  words  at 
all.  We  don't  need  them,  do  we?  It's  so 
quiet  in  the  little  street;  it  makes  our  ter- 
rible and  beautiful  adventure  seem  like  a 
dream.  The  honey-suckle  and  the  locust 
smell  sweeter  even  than  our  memories  of 
them  and  the  lights  are  coming  out  one  by 
one  in  the  little  houses — and  tired  people 
are  coming  home  to  rest.  It's  all  so  peace- 
ful and  homely  and  exquisite;  someone  is 
cutting  the  grass  next  door,  and  the  little 
girls  skipping  rope  look  like  white  butter- 
flies, and  far  down  the  street  a  woman  is 
calling:    "Johnny!      Johnny — supper-time, 

[45] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


dear !"  Oh,  America,  America,  how  we  have 
learned  to  love  you,  we  who  thought  that 
we  mdght  have  lost  you  forever!  And  well 
do  we  know  that  in  your  quiet  street  lie  ad- 
ventures more  thrilling  than  any  we  have 
had — romances  more  wonderful  than  any 
we  have  dreamed.  For  in  your  quiet  streets 
lies  the  Future. 

All  the  little  lights  are  shining  in  the 
windows,  and  the  last  one  is  lighted  in  the 
west — the  evening  star.  Do  you  remember 
the  rhyme  that  we  used  to  say  when  we  were 
little?  Give  me  your  hand,  my  A.E.F.,  and 
we'll  wish  on  the  first  star  in  the  darkness 
before  you  go. 

"Star   light,   star   bright, 
Very  first  star  I've  seen  to-night, 
Wish  I  may,  wish  I  might 
Have  the  wish  I  wish  to-night." 

I  wish,  my  A.E.F.,  that  you  may  give 
to  America,  before  you  leave  her,  your 
deathless  courage  and  imperishable  strength, 

[^6] 


MY     A.     E. 


your  ringing  laughter  and  your  beautiful 
gentleness,  your  splendid  enthusiasm  and 
your  eternal  youth.  I  wish  that  you  may 
give  her  your  soul. 

And  so  farewell  to  you,  my  A.E.F.  Turn 
once  more  to  wave  to  me  at  the  cross-roads 
— even  though  my  eyes  cannot  see  you  for 
the  foolish  tears,  my  heart  sees  you  well — 
tall  and  young  and  splendid  in  your  khaki, 
waving  farewell  to  me  with  that  exultant 
laugh  of  yours — eager  to  be  off,  eager  to  be 
away.  When  you  have  turned  the  corner,  I 
will  see  you  still.  I  will  see  you  always.  So 
I  will  smile  too,  and  wave,  too,  and  be  glad 
that  you  have  come  and  glad  that  you  have 
gone — still  young  and  unbroken  and  trium- 
phant. Best  comrade  and  truest  lover  and 
dearest  playmate — hail  and  farewell,  my 
A.E.F. ! 


[47] 


A  few  contracts  from  the  many  letters  re 
ceived  hy  Miss  Noyes  after  "My  A.  E.  F.' 
appeared  in  McClure's  Magazine, 


From  a  Memhei'  of  the  U.  S.  Army  Postal 

Service 

I  was  lucky  enough  to  have  seen  many  of 
the  very  phases  of  the  "A.  E.  F."  you 
mention,  while  staying  with  the  boys  on  five 
of  the  drives.  And  I  want  to  express  to  you 
my  appreciation  of  the  whole-souled  work  of 
your  "Y"  and  yourself  individually.  I  met 
you  once,  I  remember,  and  I  recollect  your 
word  of  cheer  to  the  weary  ones  and  your 
smile  of  welcome  to  the  homesick  lads,  and 
the  "A.  E.  F."  owes  you  a  debt  they  can 
never  pay.  When  I  think  of  such  as  you,  of 
"Pop"  Reeves  with  the  78th,  of  that  big- 
hearted,  tireless  worker  with  the  Engineers 
in  that  forgotten  village  outside  of  Verdun, 
of  those  fine  men  and  women  with  us  on  that 
drive  from  Amiens  to  Bohain  with  the  Sec- 
ond Army  Corps ;  when  I  think  of  these  and 

[51] 


MY    A.     E.     F. 


many  more  I  knew  personally,  I  see  how  no 
one  could  criticize  them. 

Mistakes  were  made,  plenty  of  them,  by 
every  organization  connected  with  the  army. 
But  why  blame  the  mistakes  of  a  few  men 
on  the  whole  organization  ?  Most  of  the  re- 
ports of  the  "Y"  were  second-hand  and  but 
few  men  I  heard  knew  personally  of  any 
fault;  it  was  always  some  friend  had  told 
them,  etc.  Even  some  of  the  stories  were 
changed  so  little  that  you  could  always  rec- 
ognize that  particular  brand,  though  the 
place  and  location  was  always  different,  of 
course. 

I  was  connected  with  the  Postal  Agency 
and  was  with  many  units  and  outfits  and 
hence  had  opportunity  for  observation,  as  I 
was  with  fighting  units  all  the  time.  Your 
article  certainly  goes  into  my  war  scrap  book 
with  big  headlines  as  the  very  best  magazine 
article  I  have  seen. 


[52] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


I  had  to  laugh,  yes,  and  cry,  too,  as  I  read 
your  story,  for  somehow  both  laughter  and 
tears  seem  nearer  the  surface  since  being 
"over  there."  In  fact  the  whole  experience 
stirred  up  emotions  a  fellow  did  not  know 
he  ever  possessed.  How  could  a  fellow  know 
what  he  would  do  or  say  when  going  up 
towards  the  Front  on  the  Toul  Sector  when 
he  witnessed  the  camions  of  refugees  coming 
out  of  the  zone  of  fire,  some  of  the  children 
wounded,  some  mothers  with  bandaged  heads 
with  the  blood  in  a  tiny  stream  down  their 
faces  showing  how  far  back  the  German  high 
explosives  came.  As  they  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  Americans  going  in  and  when  the 
driver  told  them  of  the  Americans  going  in 
to  their  relief,  they  smiled  and  cheered  and 
waved  their  hands  to  us  as  we  went  by  and 
yelled  "Vive  TAmerique."  Did  a  fellow 
know  that  he  would  wave  to  them  and  yell 
"Vive  la  France"  until  he  had  a  sore  throat 
and  a  husky  voice  and  the  tears  had  streaked 

[53] 


MY     A.     E.     r. 


through  the  dust  on  his  face  until  the  white 
showed  through.    Well,  he  did. 

But  there  are  too  many  times  and  too 
many  occasions  to  mention.  You  know 
them  all.  I  just  simply  wish  to  thank  you 
for  what  your  story  makes  us  remember 
more  vividly,  for  the  message  it  should  carry 
to  every  one  who  was  "over  there,"  for  the 
notions  it  will  change  for  many  who  do  not 
know  the  real  message  you  carried  and  the 
wonderful  help  you  were  to  us  all. 


From  a  First  Division  Private 

I  have  just  finished  reading  your  story 
entitled  "My  A.  E.  F."  and  I  want  to  con- 
gratulate you,  for  it  sure  rings  true.  I  ought 
to  know  because  I  was  one  of  the  first  men 
in  France  with  the  First  Division  and  fought 
up  until  the  armistice  with  them.  In  closing 
I  want  to  say  that  you  sure  have  a  wonderful 
way  of  explaining  such  a  tangled-up  affair! 

[54] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


From  an  ''A.  E.  Fer"  of  the  33rd  Division 

Your  article  shows  more  of  the  true  spirit 
of  our  indomitable  American  girl  than  any- 
thing I  have  read.  There  is  a  tribute  to  the 
A.  E.  F.  that  every  man  should  glory  in. 
You  have  expressed  the  true  state  of  affairs 
in  regard  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  also.  Perhaps 
I  have,  with  others,  inwardly  cussed  certain 
individuals  with  the  "Y"  at  times.  But  no 
A.  E.  F.  man  can  truthfully  say  that  he  did 
not  spend  many  a  happy  hour  in  the  "Y." 


From  a  former  Captain  in  the  90th  Division 

The  rarest  of  gifts  has  been  given  to  you, 
the  gift  of  writing  in  such  a  direct,  appeal- 
ing way  that  one  cannot  help  but  feeling 
that  you  are  sitting  in  the  old  oak  chair  by 
the  fireplace  pouring  out  your  thoughts  to 
him.  You  have  a  wonderful  command  of 
the  English  language,  but  more  wonderful 

[55] 


M  Y     A.     E.     F. 


still  is  j^our  deep  understanding  of  human 
nature.  Your  power  of  observation  is  a  rare 
gift,  but  rarer  still  is  your  broad  tolerance  of 
the  whims  and  shortcomings  of  mankind,  a 
tolerance  so  deep,  so  understanding,  so  God- 
given  that  the  meanest  and  roughest  of  us  of 
your  A.  E.  F.  revealed  some  few  short 
flashes  of  virtue  and  strength. 

Yes,  "Petite,"  we  were  intolerant,  arro- 
gant, over-confident,  and  far,  far  too  swift 
to  draw  conclusions.  In  a  mean,  narrow 
way,  forgetting  all  the  difficulties  that  the 
"Y"  encountered,  all  the  lack  of  assistance 
and  encouragement  that  should  have  been 
given  by  the  highest  army  officers  down  to 
the  lowest  buck-private,  I,  too,  wrote  home 
to  "Aunt  Minnie"  and  told  her  to  stop  her 
monthly  contributions  to  the  misguided  or- 
ganization. Had  I  taken  time  to  think  the 
matter  over  in  a  sober  and  tolerant  manner, 
I  know  that  the  letter  would  never  have  been 
written. 


[56] 


MY     A.     E.     F. 


From  a  former  Captain  in  the  Canadian 
Expeditionary  Forces 

As  a  member  of  the  C.  E.  F.  with  33 
months'  service  in  France,  I  venture  to  write 
and  express  my  appreciation  of  the  charm- 
ing way  in  which  you  refer  to  the  soldiers  of 
the  AUies  of  the  United  States — British  and 
French.  Your  appeal  to  your  men  to  be 
guided  by  their  own  opinions,  and  not  by 
those  of  others — so  often  I  fear  of  propa- 
gandists who  would  stir  up  distrust  of  Eng- 
land and  France — is  so  eminently  sane  and 
is  what  is  so  much  required  just  now. 

There  are  many  here  who  would  create  the 
same  feeling  in  Canada  against  the  United 
States  and  it  is  only  by  writing  such  as  yours 
that  a  continuance  of  the  entente  which  ex- 
isted during  the  war  can  be  maintained. 


[57] 


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